


A DOSE OF DRIFT/RATCHET

by thoughtsdemise



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Spark Play, Sticky Sex, tactile play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-04-10
Packaged: 2018-10-17 04:08:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10586121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoughtsdemise/pseuds/thoughtsdemise
Summary: Cleaning out my WIP folder and came across these snippets. Don’t know if they’ve ever been collected in one place before. So they’re being collected here.





	

Drift’s optics widen and glitter when he catches sight of the dolled up Ratchet. He attaches himself to the medic’s back with a purr. “Shift ends in ten minutes. I’ve got the silk and lace if you’ve got the energy.” He strokes along Ratchet’s spinal with a wink. (oh that was…terrible. Let’s add to it!) Ratchet glares over the shoulder with a huff and a swing of the hips.

Ratchet pulls at the silk strings around his ankles and wrists. His fingers tap almost shyly at the lace that clings to his chassis like a wet skin. He ducks his helm with an embarrassed huff as Drift’s fingertips lightly trace the red lips about his painted lips. The medic starts as denta nips at his shoulder. An apologetic swipe of a glossa soon follows. Black fingertips trace over the silk braid that moves in tandem with a flexing spinal strut. And the medic ex-vents a shivering puff of air.

Drift rubs the plating along the spinal braid slowly. He taps a nonsense rhythm against the small of Ratchet’s back before circling his thumps along the twitching metal. The swordsman’s digits dig into the soft medal of the medic’s back earning Drift a gasping moan and whole frame tremble. Grinning Drift rubs along Ratchet’s hips before splaying his fingers along his abdominal plating. He nudges his helm against the back of medic’s before settling his chin on a shoulder blade.

A sharp gasping cry escapes Ratchet’s vocalizer as Drift digs into a knee joint. He arches back and his helm digs into the wall. His plating sweats steam, and the snowbird paints tantalizing swirls in the pooling condensation on silvery thighs. Ratchet flails a hand before gripping his own chest plate, pulling at the drenched lace and silk.

Drift licks along the leading edge of the chamois that lays along Ratchet’s spark. The medic mewls and keens as the delicate fabric is ripped like tissue paper at the lightest touch of that glossa. Red hands are captured in black and knuckles are tweaked and released in a rhythmic fashion. Drift rubs his chest against Ratchet’s as he pauses in licking long enough to nip at of Ratchet’s chest plate. “Wanna see the spark,” is the husked demand.

The screech of metal against metal is loud in the hab-suite as Ratchet slides to the floor. The weight of Drift along his frame almost too much as those curves slip against him. He shakes his helm at the demand but those insistent fingers dragging under his plating gaps almost making him relent. Filaments of lace and silk tickle and tease randomly at hidden node clusters. Bursts of static stream from a gasping system.

A feral growl marks Drift pulling up and away. Ratchet unwittingly chases after the retreating frame but falls back gasping. Black thumbs press into the lower edge of a red chest plate. Drift triggers his own protocols to open his chest plate. Pulses of white and blue lightening zip over the filaments of silk and lace. Ratchet trembles beneath Drift for a moment, trying not to reach for the other mech.

Small pinging snaps join in the harmony of heat from pinging metal. Ratchet cycles his own chest plates open as he arches into the gentling pets along his sides. His finger slip up Drift’s arms to grasp lightly to ground himself as the swordsman leans forward to kiss the bottom of the spark chamber. Warm air brushes across sensitive internal wires as the medic’s spark whirls in its chamber.

Drift’s optics glimmer brightly as he nuzzles a tendril of light that jumps from the exposed spark. He huffs heats air over the chamber as it cycles fully open. He stamps down a chuckle at Ratchet’s nonsense warbles and clicks. His digits pet at the outer edge as a cascade of energy rips almost painfully through Ratchet’s frame. Drift removes his fingers and lays a hand against Ratchet’s cheek. His thumb smearing the red paint from trembling lips.

Ratchet and Drift both tense as grasping light tendrils entwine. Ratchet tries to back away, overwhelmed by the presence of another after so long. All outer sense of self drops away as the outer edges of the sparks touch. Ratchet is the first to leap forward, however, as their cores come into alignment. The world devolves into a void of all things as the sparks collide, meltdown, and fuse to be remade.

-0-

Ratchet yanks the chain tight on Drift’s wrists. The swords-mech stares up at the medic rather surprised. The back of red fingers trace up the outside edge of a white thigh, across the span of a shapely hip and pet the lowest edge of Drift’s abdominal armor. Ratchet grins smugly and leans forward to peck a kiss on Drift’s interfacing panel.

Bond to the berth Drift shifts at the broad lick that follows the light kiss. He presses himself down into the soft surface as he steels himself against the feather touches that ghost over his plating. A cocky grin touches his own lips. He shifts upward enough to pillow his helm on his hands. “Give it your best shot; your snowbird is waiting.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” was the husked reply. Ratchet pets along the side edge of Drift’s chest. His thumbs hook behind the flashy pauldrons as he settles atop the swordsman’s hips. He teases the at the exposed tension cables that flex and twitch with each caress. Red fingers brush along the neck and settle there to feel the pulse of energon in the conduit tubing.

Chests bump and scrape as Ratchet lays against the familiar white chest that purrs deeply even though Drift sports a look of cocky defiance. The medic digs digits into the back of a slender neck, pressing against a spinal strut and earning a whole frame tremble before Drift goes lax under the frame above him. The white mech tries not to warble at the gentle pets that follow the brutish push.

Ratchet shifts downward enjoying the burr and scrape of their bodies against each other. He shivers in delight but distracts Drift by licking along the invisible central seam of his chest, stopping to suck over the other’s spark. He chuckles at the warble burst that finally escape the guarded vocalizer. “Just so you know you shouldn’t really challenge me, kid.”

Drift shifts with the static and growls deeply in his engine as his chest plates cycle open of their own accord. He snaps his head up to stare down the grinning Ratchet as the shuff of a medical contact cable finally catches his notice. The chains creak as he brings his arms up sharply trying to snap them. A dark light filters through his optics. He shifts under Ratchet’s weight.

As the chest cycles open, Ratchet fingers the edges. The dark light filtering through Drift’s optics amuses him, even though he knows he is pushing his luck by doing so. He smiles indulgently down at the shifting frame before bringing red hips down to circle sensually, slowly in a teasing invitation. The blue white of Drift’s spark dances and whirls over red plating. Ratchet merely taps the main energon connection in thought.

Ratchet wraps an index finger and thumb around the connection to the spark chamber. He smiles knowingly as Drift stills beneath him. He twists his fingers around that connect. A quickly cut off cry as Ratchet’s denta sink into the gear opening. Vibrating zaps jump up from the whirling spark. Red fingers drag lightly through interconnecting tubes and wires. The ping of the door opening is drowned out by Drift’s heavy vents.

The clatter of a dropped datapad does draw the medic’s attention as he casts a glance over his shoulder. His stillness causes Drift to pause as well. He lightens his optics and leans about Ratchet’s midsection to stare at a gaping Ultra Magnus and Rodimus. As the captain stares openly at the scene, Magnus clears his vents.

Ratchet straightens is spinal strut with a snap, hooking his ankles under Drift’s tensing thighs, and plucking at the other mech’s t-cog. He grinds his hips against Drift’s in a silent forceful command to be still when deep growls reverberate into his frame. Ratchet cycles Drift’s chest closed before he shifts to the side and slides a speculating look at Magnus and Rodimus. He jerks his head in a silent invitation as he pets a straining shoulder joint to still the tension from the shaking frame.

-0-

Drift’s small helm pushes against Ratchet’s nasal cavity. With a vibrating churr he slides against a soft facial plate to tuck into sensitive neck cables. He wiggles his little behind impatiently at Ratchet who is trying to work. “Want pets now,” he whines and presses more insistently against the medic’s neck. Ratchet gives in and pets a small red spaulder much to Drift’s great delight.

-0-

Drift smiles challengingly up at Ratchet before stretching out spread eagle on the berth and opening his chest plates to bare his spark.  He winks at the medic before interlocking his fingers behind his helm. His EM field is filled with the message of “do your worst” as it tangles with Ratchet’s tightly coiled field, trying to tease the medic into a heedless arousal.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for, kid,” Ratchet grits out while taking an unconscious step forward. His eyes track tiny flares that dance and spin from the spark with Drift’s growing arousal.  The medic’s field loosens enough to return the teasing brushes.  He steps toward the enticing sight that the ex-Con makes spread out like that. Trusting and completely open to whatever pleasure Ratchet could throw at him.

Drift pulls his knees up slightly in response to the returned caresses along his field and eyes the approaching frame.  A tiny crackle of electrical current passes over his thighs to dance about inside his open torso.  He cycles his vents and optics before licking over his lips in anticipation as Ratchet’s knee impacts the berth’s edge.  “Do your worst, Ratch.”

A static burst follows a deep rumble from a heavy duty engine.  Red fingers glance over white insteps and dig into calf seams.  Curved thighs spread wider as those fingers tickle at knee joints that emit an answering tremble.  Hands continue their journey over white and red thighs before picking at the exposed cables of Drift’s outer hips.  Ratchet’s firm grip on Drift’s hips does little to still the weaving and wriggling frame beneath his touch, especially when he licks and sucks at the leading edge of Drift pelvic armor.

Leaving a final nip Ratchet licks at the bottom of Drift’s spark chamber, where the main energon line connects with the chamber.  The medic has to bear down on the warrior as he jerks and writhes.  Denta sink into the tubing hurt enough to dent but gentle enough not to tear the delicate material.  The rolling glossa leaves soft apologies in the wake of the bites.  One red hand comes up to circle around the open window into the spark chamber.

Fingers are drawn through the whorls of energy and flares of light as Ratchet mouths the same opening a few moments later.  The medic revs his engine and activates his internal conductors to add an extra charge to his kiss.  The creaking crack of denting metal makes Ratchet wince as his glances sidelong at Drift’s fingers digging into his shoulders.  He pulls his own fingers from Drift’s spark much to the speedster’s great distress if that warbling grunt from his engine was anything to go by.

Ratchet flashes a grin up at the desperate look Drift gives him.  He bites roughly into the knuckle joints of two fingers.  Energon wells from the small fracture, slipping over the medic’s lip and down his chin.  “You ready, kid?”  Small droplets of processed energon drip from Ratchet’s fingers directly into Drift’s spark.

Ambulon hunches his shoulders to hide the small warm tingle that stutters through his systems as the broken wail reaches his audios.  ‘Aide turns gleaming optics toward the back of the medibay where the Chief Medical Officer’s suite is located.  He smirks at the hunched over form of Ambulon and decides that it was time to further the ward manager’s education.  The CMO-in-training sends a brief comm over to Magnus to ask him to come to the medibay. The second-in-command had expressed an interest in helping in any training activities the crew felt they needed, and ‘Aide couldn’t think of a better training activity than the one that would involve Magnus’ frame bent over by Ambulon.  A pleased purr echoes through the younger medic’s frame.  Definitely going to be one of those shifts for sure if the second wail was anything to measure it by.

-0-

Well…

  1. Start with the digit tips or audios.
  2. If you start with the hands, gently work your way over then give special attention to the wrist and work your way up the arms. Oh! He does love a warm sweet scented oil for this.
  3. If you start with the audios then use your thumbs to lightly brush the surface and lips help to. Ratch is very ticklish just under his helm and will gasp nicely if you apply your glossa there.
  4. Use magnets. He loves when you rub magnets of varying strengths over his frame.
  5. wait…



Uh-oh gotta cut this short. Getting a comm from Ratch right now. ;3 Hope this fires the imagination.

-0-

Drift pulls Ratchet tighter into his chest. If he dared, he would pull the medic’s spark into his own. His digits run over Ratchet’s bowed helm, lingering over the dents he finds. Drift rests his chin against Ratchet’s crest. “The road has been long, old friend.” Ratchet’s hands knead into Drift’s waist before he embraces the speedster. He buries his face into the white plating and nods. The words unspoken as their EM fields dance and combine. It had been far too long since they had embraced, far too long since they had felt each other’s warmth and pulse. Far too long since their world had turned into a nightmare then the separation that had nearly broken the medic. Ratchet doesn’t keep the static warble from his vocalizer as he speaks Drift’s name in broken spurts, trying to join with the mech who was his bane and his meaning. “I know, Ratch. I know.

-0-

_ Drift leans against Ratchet’s spark, shivering coursing over his frame. He pulls the medic closer. The swordsman tries to bury himself into that familiar field and spark while silently cursing the metal that lays between him and it. Drift’s optics shutter. _

_ Ratchet kisses the top of Drift’s helm trying to soothe the trembling spark. He straddles Drift’s lap and settles the speedster’s helm under his chin. His EM field encompasses Drift as he allows the other mech to loose himself in the familiar. Warmth passes between the two frames as they settle down into a long overdo greeting. _

-0-

_ Drift bounces in place on one ped. “Whadda mean we gotta wait till tomorrow to open this?!” _

_ Ratch strokes his chin as his optics track the jittery movement of the speedster. “It’s traditional, Drift,” he mono tones with a straight enough face, “and if you try to open it now then you have to wait another day or it disappears.” _

_ Drift wiggles and whines. “What?  But, but…Raaaaatcheeet!” _

_ The medic shakes his helm but holds out mistletoe with a wink. “Leave it be, Drift. Come here a minute so I can show you another tradition.” _

_ Drift reluctantly wonders over to Ratchet. His optics remain on the package. He jumps in surprise when he feels lips peck the side of his mouth. He snaps his helm around to stare wide opticed at the grinning CMO. His facial plates heat to a steady glow as the crinkled lines around Ratchet’s optics deepen. _

_ “Merry Christmas, Drift,” Ratch peck the end of Drift’s nose one quick time more before steam stares to rise from the speedster and the bright flush spreads up his frame. “What you need a cooling down now?” He teases lightly. _

_ Drift covers his face and mewls helplessly into his hands, at a loss for words. _

-0-


End file.
